


After the Fall

by TheOtherWesley



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Blacksmithing as Foreplay, Body Worship, Chubby Elves And The Dark Lords Who Love Them, Fall of Gondolin, M/M, Maeglin Lives AU, Rimming, Surprisingly Vanilla For A Fic About Two Captured Elves In Angband But Still Pretty Kinky, The Pairing Literally Nobody Asked For But Me, War of Wrath, implied angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 17:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12437592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOtherWesley/pseuds/TheOtherWesley
Summary: Having survived the fall of Gondolin, Maeglin pulls some strings with management to secure the freedom of his friend Salgant. They are both put to work in the Great Forge of Angband, under the supervision of Sauron himself.Salgant learns a trade, he and Maeglin both come to terms with the changing future of Beleriand, Sauron waxes hopeful about the end of the war, and healing happens in unlikely places.Revenge isn't nearly as sweet as candied chestnuts.





	1. Spoils of War

**Author's Note:**

> \--Nothing explicit happens in this chapter, you are safe my precious ducklings.   
> \--Minor warnings for dysmorphia / body negativity and shades of self hatred.   
> \--Minor warnings for Inappropriate Workplace Touchings.

“That one,” Maeglin said, pointing downwards.

He stood on the overlook of a massive crater into which a blackened stair led; down, down into the gut of the mountain, steep and bottomless, echoing with the distant pounding of machines. Row upon row of iron-barred cells lined the pit as far down as eyes could see, earning the vast prison its name: the Iron Hell. No sunlight ever touched the cells below the first dozen stories, and all below was dark.

Captives, fresh from the siege of Gondolin, shuffled down the narrow way. As a rule, prisoners were not bound together; there was nowhere to escape to if they ran, and if one decided to meet their death by jumping over the edge, they would not take their whole line with them. Orcs with whips and rods harried them into their allotted cages, where they would wait until there was thrall-work to be done.   
  
One prisoner in particular trudged with great difficulty down the stair, clinging as closely to the walls as his girth would allow while moving like a drunkard on a tightrope.

“That one?”

Sauron, the lieutenant with whom Maeglin had an understanding, seemed incredulous; “That one is your friend?”

“Yes. His name is Salgant, and he is my friend,” the young elf bared his teeth defensively, “Release him now, before one of the guards throws him over! We had a deal.”

“...So we did,” Sauron blinked, slow, expression unreadable.

The lieutenant raised his hand, and without a word the orcs stood at attention, looking at him in eerie unison, awaiting direction. He gestured to the straggler.

“Bring that one up unharmed,” he ordered, then turning to Maeglin he asked “any others?”

“No,” the boy hissed, nursing his splinted arm. “No others.”

  


* * *

 

“Maeglin?” Salgant shivered, blinking into the light, “is that really you?”

The Lord of the House of the Harp was damp from an unceremonious washing, his clothes no longer green and gold silk, but a woolen tunic and trousers whose previous owner had apparently not been of elven stature, for the hems cut off above his ankles. His honey-brown curls were dripping and disarrayed, his blue-grey eyes bloodshot and his large, round nose red from cold.   
  
Salgant rubbed his eyes. “Am I dreaming? Or are we both phantoms now in Mandos?”

“No phantom,” Maeglin said, smiling wearily, striding forward with a hopping gait to meet his friend.

They met, and Salgant touched Maeglin’s arm as if to reassure himself of his solidity, and they embracing gingerly. They did not hurry, or speak until Salgant’s knees wobbled and he pulled back to look up at his friend’s face.

“You fell! We saw you fall! I mean, well, _I_ didn’t. When the dragons came, I hid in a cellar, but I heard…" he swallowed, “You were thrown over the Crissaegrim, before the towers crumbled. I didn’t think it was possible to survive such a fall; I didn’t let myself hope.”  

"I was saved,” Maeglin’s voice was soft and uninflected; “One of Morgoth’s winged creatures caught me in the air-- not before I’d struck the mountain a few times, as you can see,” he twitched his head at his broken arm, his short black hair swinging.

Beneath Maeglin’s tunic was a swath of bandages and brace, suggesting that far more damage had been done than was visible; even Salgant had noticed him limping.

“…Dear Maeglin--!” Salgant began, but he was cut off.

“My friend, I know I ought to be ashamed--” Maeglin looked down, eyes reddening, “You should have escaped, you deserve to be free. But I can’t help but be happy to see you again. Can you forgive me?”

"What is to forgive? How would I have escaped or even survived on my own? I’m alive, and you’re alive-- and here we both are surrounded by… by…”  Salgant broke into tears, “Oh, Maeglin! You saved my life! You know I cannot fight! I’m not strong, I can’t stand pain, blood terrifies me… I heard those creatures talking while they drove us around like sheep; they say only the fit and uncomplaining stay alive as thralls! The moment I picked up a shovel they’d have realized I’m better f-fit for _eating_ than for labor…!” he gave a pitched sob and sniffled wetly.

Maeglin’s shoulders drooped with a look of pity.

“Oh, my friend, my friend, I am sorry-- there _will_ be labor for us both. There are only so many favors I may ask of him.”

Salgant, who was already quite pale of complexion, drained of color.

“ _Him?_ ”

“The Lieutenant, Forgemaster of Angband. He... approves of me, I think. I work in his forge, and soon you will too. It is not easy work, Salgant, but I promise you will grow more accustomed to it! He is not so terrible to serve. He reminds me of--”  he nearly said _‘Rog’_ , but the name stuck in his throat, and he could not finish.

"You work for a lieutenant of _Morgoth_?” Salgant quivered, “And you say it will not be so terrible for me, to be a slave in a smithy? Ai, Maeglin! This is the end for me!”

The poor, stout elf began to pace frantically, pulling at his curls in a panic.

“He’ll take one look at me and throw me to the wolves! Maeglin oh no, no, no what will I do!? I’m no good! I’m no good for this kind of thing! He’ll laugh! He’ll roast me alive! He’ll send me back to the Orcs!"

"—Not if you can work a bellows,” said a deep voice behind them, and Salgant froze in his tracks, looking ready to faint dead to the ground.

Ducking under the doorframe, Sauron entered the elves’ chamber, looming formidable in front of Salgant’s quaking silhouette.

“You _can_ work a bellows, I trust?” the enormous Maia peered down curiously with yellow eyes, as a raptor on a high perch might assess a rodent. Salgant made a strangled sound.

“Salgant will be happy to do anything you tell him to do-- only give him time to become accustomed to the work,” Maeglin supplied hurriedly, “Won’t you, Salgant?”

Salgant squeaked.

“Hm,” Sauron stroked his short, dark beard, pacing around the elf with an expression of thoughtful scrutiny. “Show me your arms.”

Maeglin gave his friend an urgent look, and like rusty clockwork Salgant complied. Once he held out his arms for inspection, he barely had time to flinch before huge gloved hands grasped him just above the elbow, giving his soft flesh a discerning squeeze.

“...Like a feather pillow. You’ll have trouble keeping pace with these,” Sauron observed, and suddenly he squatted down beside the peculiarly rotund elf and patted down Salgant’s wool-clothed thighs and calves.

“Ah! Fine, strong legs. Firm, no injuries. You’ll make fair enough time if you use these to your advantage,” the forgemaster gave him an approving nod, “It appears you escaped the siege in _very_ good health, master Salgant. How lucky.”

“He’s always been very healthy. There are a lot of stairs in Gondolin,” Maeglin said hastily, again covering for his friend.

“ _Hmghk_ ,” said Salgant.

“I can see that,” Sauron laughed and stood, “I will expect you both by the first horn. Work begins early in the night, so I suggest you sleep; you will need your strength.”   
  
As he turned to leave, a sudden thought seemed to give him pause, and with a small, conspiratorial smile, he beckoned to Maeglin. The young elf leaned in quizzically as Sauron bent and whispered something in his ear.

“A… _What_?”

“You don’t think so?” Sauron grinned and shot the still-petrified Salgant a strange look from across the room. Maeglin followed the look, turning his head from his friend to the forgemaster and back again in quick succession.

“I-- I mean, I don’t think…” When he blushed instead of finishing his answer, Sauron chuckled and clapped him on the back gingerly.  
  
“Pfah, you elves have no taste at all,” he said, and ducked out of the room, adding “Remember-- the first evening horn, no later.”  

It was long moments before either elf dared speak. Maeglin was the first to exhale a long, tired sigh and sit on the edge of his straw-stuffed mattress.

“We had better sleep.”  

"Wh-what?” Salgant stared, aghast, “Sleep? Here? After _that_ ?” he gave a high, humorless giggle, “It’s all very well for you! You’re thin! And apparently tasteless! Whereas _I_ have tender thighs and arms that will no doubt pair wonderfully with a red wine!”

“I don’t think he means to eat you, Salgant,” Maeglin said quietly, trying to sound reassuring rather than embarrassed.

“Why, what did he say to you?”

“He said…” Maeglin’s nose wrinkled, as if he questioned his own memory, “’ _you never told me your friend was a great beauty’_.”

Salgant seemed to crumple onto his own bed, resigned to his fate.

“A cruel joke, to begin a cruel day. I should have expected as much," Salgant fluffed what little he had been given for a pillow and despite his earlier protestation collapsed face first into oblivion.

As the lamps went out, Maeglin lay awake staring into the darkness, uncertain.

 

* * *

 

Long before the first horn, the two elves made their way down from their sparse living quarters to the Great Forge. It was Maeglin’s suggestion to leave early, to avoid the changing shift of Orcs-- by now he was used to their leering stares, but he wanted to spare Salgant the extra distress. He’d learned it was easiest to take the Orcish ways throughout the fortress; their size was the closest equivalent to an elf’s of all the things that dwelt in Angband.  
  
By contrast, nothing within the Great Forge was proportioned for elven stature-- the furnace set into the wall of the mountain gaped like a dragon’s maw, and the anvil at the center of the chamber loomed over them, black and imposing with its horn thrust into the air.

"Oh… What diabolical instruments of torture!"  Salgant gasped, taking in the range of iron tools that hung from the walls, eyeing in particular an unfamiliar construction attached to the furnace; "truly, we are in hell! I will not last long under such persecution…!”  

“Ah, no, see, that is the bellows,” Maeglin put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, nodding to the offending device; “It is foot-powered. You hold on with your arms up above, and use your bodyweight to push down on the pedal,” he pointed to the wooden frame set into the floor, “the air is pumped through the tuyere, there, into the furnace, there. That makes the fire hot enough to smelt with."

Salgant shuffled forward, kneading his knuckles as he examined the elaborate bellows.

“...And the dark lord, he could not make the bellows go on their own, somehow? Could he not, er, enchant them? With wizardry?”

Maeglin shook his head, and winced with regret as the motion flexed his wound.

“No. Or rather, he _could_ use wizardry, but it is distracting. That is how he described it to me: the more of his power he uses on mundane tasks, the less he can spare towards his craft,” Maeglin explained; “It would be as though you were stirring three different pots while measuring ingredients and reciting a poem all at the same time. He prefers to concentrate on the task at hand.”  

"I have trouble imagining the Abhorred One baking..." Salgant frowned incredulously, tiptoeing closer to the giant anvil at the center the room, “--but I think I understand. You seem to know a lot about him.”

Maeglin pretended to focus on refueling the forge, leaning into the cold furnace to inspect the coals. “I had sufficient time to learn his ways after my capture.”

Salgant’s hand-wringing increased, his round face tense with worry.

“You never told me what happened to you. I wish I could have helped you bear that… It must have been terrible, knowing for so long that we were doomed, unable to speak of it.”

Maeglin twitched, as if he’d been stung, a straight curtain of raven hair obscuring his expression.

“You always give me too much credit, Salgant. You trusted me, spoke for me in the council… I never should have involved you in all this. I don’t deserve your friendship.”

“I don’t believe that,” Salgant smiled, touching his friend’s shoulder, “You know I couldn’t blame you for yielding to the duress of Morgoth himself! Stronger folk than you or I have fallen before the sight of him alone. What could you have done against him?”

 _Died, submitted to torture, made the sacrifice that any normal elf would have made,_ Maeglin thought, turning his head so Salgant would not see the grimace that seized his face, beyond his control.

 _But that wasn’t what made you do it, was it?_ said a voice in his mind, mocking and familiar. _You would have done it for the offer alone, wouldn’t you? Ill-gotten little snake._

“Is this where Morgoth’s weapons are forged?”  Salgant asked, breaking the silence.

“Not all of them,” Maeglin answered quickly, jumping at the opportunity to speak of matters other than himself; “This is the Forgemaster’s private smithy. He does not waste his talents making nails or swords for Uruks, lesser smiths can manage that. He designs prototypes, and builds things too complex or vast to be handled elsewhere,” he gave a crooked smile despite himself, “He was impressed with my mechanical designs. We worked on some together.”

“You worked together… with _Sauron?”_

“I told you, he is not so terrible to serve,” Maeglin said, rocking onto the balls of his feet and rising with easy grace; “He has been… fair to me, all things considered.”

“But… this is _Sauron the Deceiver_ you speak of! How is it you can be so at ease with that monster? Are you not his thrall? Is he not simply using your ideas to achieve wicked ends?” Salgant chewed his lip and wrung his hands to redness, “I do not understand how you can be so calm! We are both slaves here! We could be back in that pit in an instant, if he but snaps his fingers!"

"Sauron has never yet broken a promise to me,” said Maeglin quietly, a dark look passing over his face, “not when it was in his power to grant it. He, at least, has never resented my presence.”  

“Oh, Maeglin…” said Salgant, drooping, “You don’t really believe you were _resented_ by the King? By your admirers, your friends?"  

“ _What friends?_ ” Maeglin snorted with fierce, youthful petulance, “Only you were never false to me, Salgant-- only you never looked at me and saw the kinless bastard of a murderer, a responsibility to be shouldered in the memory of my mother! No one in court would have even have _looked_ at me if I hadn’t been the king’s nephew."

 _Certainly not -her-,_ he thought.

"You are beautiful, and clever, and brave-- you fought beside Turgon in the great battle, the members of your House all talked about you with praise and admiration...” Salgant’s voice was soft, “I know they did, I was always listening.”

Maeglin stared at his friend, lips parted to speak and sentiment brimming in his dark eyes-- but whatever he wanted to say in that moment was cut short by the tremendous, rumbling blast of a horn that shook through the very ground.

The forges blazed to life and roared in welcome of the new day of work-- or night, as it was in Angband with its nocturnal residents.

Salgant crouched with his hands over his head and yelped, the sudden noise and fire transporting him for a moment back to the horror of the siege, and as if to complete the picture, the entrance of the forge darkened, and the lieutenant of Morgoth strode in.

“You’re early,” he said simply, and hefted a great, red hammer over his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

It was of little comfort when the Maia changed his size to meet his new assistants; as he shrunk from the size of a huge troll to merely the largest man Salgant had ever seen, the forge changed with him, its vertigo-inducing proportions shifting around them to match the height of its master. The red hammer, along with all that had been crafted by the forgemaster to suit himself, was apparently scalable according to his whim, as mutable as the geography of a dream. Maeglin seemed to accept the change without blinking; Salgant stumbled into a table and felt ill.

“How fares your shoulder today, apprentice?” asked Sauron, running his hand over the surface of the great anvil as though greeting a pet.

“It improves,” Maeglin answered frankly, unperturbed in the presence of the enemy, “Less sore than yesterday, though it still does not move or bend.”

"Pity. You could have demonstrated how to work the bellows to-- Salgant, wasn’t it?” the Maia let each syllable of the name slip gently from this lips.

Salgant’s spine shivered upright as he saw the golden eyes focus on him curiously, slitted pupils pinning him in place.

“Has it been explained what is required of you?”

He nodded, or at least, his head made a nervous spasm up and down, which Sauron took as an answer.

“Good. Maeglin, continue, if you would, the drawings for your flighted machines. And you, Salgant, begin slowly. Do not exhaust yourself with frantic paddling that you cannot sustain. If you let the forge cool, however--” his face hardened with foreboding, “I will be _displeased._ ”

Salgant said nothing in reply but blanched grey, and walked ramrod stiff over to the bellows scaffold like a man condemned.

What had sounded as simple as walking in Maeglin’s instructions proved considerably more challenging in practice.

Summoning his courage, Salgant grabbed hold of the bar above his head and stomped onto the pedal of the bellows; it sank down quickly, and came up again with just the same speed and force. Salgant’s knee was suddenly level with his navel— his back leg slipped, and he went hopping on one foot into the wall.  

Across the room at his drafting table, Maeglin tried his best not to stare, but sat frozen in place with a look of worried fascination.

Not about to give up and risk the dark lord’s ire, Salgant took a deep breath and gripped the rail once more, lowering his bulk more slowly onto the bellows. The pedal went down, and so did Salgant-- as the platform dipped far past the level of the floor the elf lost his grip on the handrail, suddenly flailing to keep his balance like a sailor on a tossing ship. With a yelp he fell to all fours, attempting to crawl off the seesawing platform as it pitched beneath him.

By the time he succeeded in hoisting himself wheezing out of the depression in the floor, the furnace had begun to gutter.

Maeglin’s face was a mask of horror, his quill hovering in the air dripping ink onto his parchment, unattended. But Salgant quickly righted himself and put on a grim look of determination. On the third attempt, he eased his weight onto the pedal, exerting only half as much pressure as it would take to press it down fully. Then he carefully pulled himself up by the bar, letting the momentum of the pedal help lift him.

This approach held steady for several cycles without incident. Maeglin let out the breath he’d been holding with relief.

But the deceptive ease of the work soon took its toll-- incrementally the pace quickened, until Salgant found himself panting and heaving, his sweaty hands threatening to slip off the bar once more. He ground his teeth together in an effort to keep going, but his strength gave out and he slipped, knees locking beneath him. He stumbled and tipped backward and fell heavily onto his padded rear with a thud, drenched in sweat.

"BELLOWS-BOY, WHAT DID I TELL THEE ABOUT THE FORGE GETTING COLD?” came a roar from the massive anvil.

 _“I-I-I’m sorry, I… can’t!”_  Salgant clutched his chest in agony, his face crimson and blotchy.

There was a _clang!_ as a great hammer was set to rest, and Salgant’s thudding heart threatened to burst as he steeled himself for his inevitable doom…

From behind, a huge hand descended and plucked him up by the back of his shirt as though he were a child, then dusted him off brusquely.

“Here,” said the forgemaster, producing a waterskin from his belt, “I sometimes forget that drink is more than a pleasant refreshment for you people. I am used to working alone.”

The skin was full of miraculously cool water, which the elf sucked down greedily without hesitation, spattering handfuls onto his red face.

“…Why are you still wearing that _wool_?” the forgemaster asked, incredulous.  

Salgant looked at his drenched tunic sheepishly, still unable to speak.

The Maia was just as intimidating as he’d been the night before, but now Salgant had a chance to see him in better light; dark and gleaming as the bronze statue of Aulë he’d seen in the smiths’ shrine, and just as wide round in the arms and chest. His dark hair was swept back into a neat topknot, not a single strand daring to stray out of place. He wore leather gloves and an apron the color of old blood, tied in an elaborate hitch he’d seen the disciples of Aulë use in their work. Everything about him was well-ordered and trim, though he looked like he could turn a charging bull without taking a step backwards.

Sauron seemed to be cataloguing the elf’s features in return. _Tallying up all the reasons why I would be better used as bait for wargs, no doubt._

“...I have never seen an elf like you before.”  

Salgant flinched. “N-neither have I," he answered, feeling apologetic somehow.  

He’d been told his compact frame and round face were to do with his Teleri ancestry-- that some tribes in the frozen North were stouter than others elves, encouraged by the bitter climate to become full-figured and insulated against the cold. These were the elves who had helped Turgon’s father survive crossing the Helcaraxë-- his father’s people, who he had never met. His mother, meanwhile, was curvaceous but dainty, her waist tapered and her chin firm; of hardy Noldor stock.    

But neither the stockiest of the Noldor nor the most well-padded of the Teleri looked like he did. He was, as far as he knew, the _only_ elf who looked like he did.

There was an uncomfortable silence in which he continued to sweat and gasp for air, aware that he must look ridiculous, but unable to stop. Unsure where to rest his eyes, they drifted vaguely around the forgemaster’s midsection, solid round as a tree trunk and hard with muscle-- the opposite of his own.

The great smith made a thoughtful noise suddenly, smoothing his beard.

"What you need is proper a demonstration! Watch me for a moment while you catch your breath-- I’ll show you the most efficient method,” he said, untying the knot of his sash and stripping to the waist.

Salgant took a hurried gulp of water and choked, mopping his chin.

Many years ago, on a morning walk around the citadel’s promenade, he’d watched a spotted mountain cat spring down the steep slope of the Amon Gwareth in pursuit of a chamois. He remembered distinctly how it had coiled itself before leaping, how taut and sleek it had been in motion. The image came back to him with sudden clarity as he watched Sauron’s brown, gleaming back stretch and buckle, how the huge muscles in his arms stored their strength before releasing it with measured care.

Dancers, warriors, blacksmiths… The way others moved had always filled Salgant with a sense of wonder, and a strange sort of loneliness-- the same way he felt whenever he beheld someone who was very beautiful.

On a more practical note, watching an experienced hand work the bellows fixed in his mind the pace and technique he needed to keep the pedal moving with the least amount effort.

“Oh! I think I see now," Salgant said confidently, wiping curls of damp hair from his forehead; "Yes, I believe I’ve got it! Thank you!"

Sauron glanced at him over his shoulder; "Come, show me then. Hop on,” he swung to one side of the scaffold, and beckoned.

Despite having drained the waterskin, Salgant’s throat was suddenly dry again.

“Er… _With_ you?"

"Of course,” Sauron said matter-of-factly, gesturing to the space by his side, “And for love of iron and gold, take that tunic off before you boil in it!"

Salgant hurried to comply and pulled the shirt over his head, nerves too overwhelmed to object. Without the sweat-soaked wool hugging his body, he found that the air in the forge was in fact quite bearable. The ceiling rose so high above that it was out of sight, and there were eddies of cooler air that dried his sweat and refreshed his bare skin. (He tried very hard not to think of how very _much_ skin he had to bare).

Careful not to so much as brush against his instructor ( _the Enemy, the Abhorred, the Cruel,_ he reminded himself), Salgant set his foot onto the bellows and steadied himself on the bar as he’d done before. Beside him, the forgemaster did the same, resting his huge, hard-calloused hands next to the elf’s.

 _My hands feel like pastry dough! How will I ever do this work?_ Salgant exhaled through his nose with a shiver.

"Set the pace,” rumbled the voice beside him.

Down went the pedal, and the bellows groaned. Air rattled through the pipes again and the furnace flared with a great breath. Salgant’s thighs burned, but he was no longer breathless.

When he hesitated too long, or came down too quickly, Sauron evened the pace, or clicked his tongue in warning. Soon the task seemed less troublesome than climbing the stairs.

“When you begin to tire, switch feet."

Salgant nodded.

In Gondolin, there had been a bit of common wisdom that said one could always tell a servant of Morgoth, no matter how fair their disguise, by the foulness of their odor-- their souls were so rank and rotten that no shape they wore could ever mask it. Yet Salgant’s nose (which he prided in being sensitive enough to determine the freshness of milk to within a day), detected nothing foul, no hint of decay or purification.

There _was_ a distinct smell, he noted, certainly noticeable, but not unpleasant. Beneath the relatively normal, mannish scent and the smell of leather, there was something electric, earthy; like the air before a storm.   
His nose told him it belonged in a category by itself; the smell a body made more out of magic than flesh, to suit a creature who wore a physical shape only for sake of convenience. But, for being only the guise of skin and muscle, the smith was real and solid enough to sweat lightly in the heat of the forge, just enough that his skin glistened, and smelled warm.   

Suddenly, with horror Salgant realized that the only sourness he whiffed came from _himself_. It took every effort not to yank his arms down from the bar and curl them around himself in embarrassment, now acutely aware of how slick and slimy his skin felt, how it stuck to itself in folds, flopping and jiggling when he moved… A sound of discomfort escaped him he could stifle it, and with a lurch, his hand slipped off the bar and he lost his balance--

But this time, before he could topple over, an arm hooked securely around his ample midriff, holding him upright.

"Careful,” said Sauron, pulling him off the platform with ease.

“Th-thank you,” Salgant panted, sagging into the supporting grasp as the adrenaline left him. Then he squeaked, realizing where he was, and what had happened. The arm around his soft belly looked like a rolling pin settling into dough, his flesh puckering around it. He was caught between the urge to squirm away and stay frozen in terror.

Sauron looked down at him arched an eyebrow; he had not yet released his hold on the elf’s midsection.

“You’re a strange one to thank me. Believe me, it is my pleasure."

They had stopped pumping the bellows, but it seemed to have a momentum of its own— Salgant realized it must be the Maia’s will keeping it in motion while they rested.

A breath tickled the point of his ear, and his spine went straight and stiff.  

"I truly have never seen an elf like you before,” murmured the low voice, just close enough to his skin to make the hairs on the back of his neck rise; “I did not know that your kind _could_ look like this."

Salgant’s cheeks burned. "I’m sorry, your Cruelness, m-my lord. As Maeglin said, I’m certain I will become less ponderous with time and hard work… give me a few weeks, a month!"

Sauron paused, his hand, cool and dry in comparison to to elf’s, lingered on the white slope of Salgant’s belly before withdrawing.

"...Perhaps I should find you lighter work, then."

Salgant blinked quickly in confusion. "I beg your pardon?”

Sauron chuckled, not mocking but rich and reassuring; “You may think of yourself as a thrall for now, little lord! But Maeglin has done a great service for my Master, and he has vouched for you and bought your safety. Whatever you’ve heard about me, know that I do not break my word to those I count as allies,” the smith crossed his arms with regal dignity. “You are his friend, and therefore a guest of mine, so long as you do not seek to overthrow the rule of Angband. You will work in my forge-- for we cannot have idle hands about the fortress-- but do not fear. I will not punish you with harm if you should falter."

This information came as a great relief, though Salgant was not sure yet if he could trust it.

"I shall try to be useful, my lord... er, lieutenant…?”

Sauron smiled wryly, “I have many names amongst your kind— none of them very flattering. You may call me Thû, or Forgemaster, or Sauron,” he said, making formal introduction. Then his smile widened to an approving grin, revealing unsettlingly pointed teeth, "...It is well you desire to be of better use, but in truth I may keep you in the forge even if you are _not_ useful. You have excellent manners for an elf. I find you pleasant.“  

Salgant bent his head, not certain what he should say, if he _could_ say anything to such a dubious compliment.

"Start again when you can breathe," Sauron finished, pulling the leather apron over his torso once again and tieing it off, “I can manage the bellows myself for now.”

“Thank you. I’ll… see if I can help Maeglin,” Salgant offered, worrying his sore hands.

With a nod, the forgemaster returned to his anvil-- and across the way Salgant spied Maeglin leaning over his chair, smiling with a wink in his eye, as if to say:

_See? I told you._

* * *

 

 

"Augh! I _ache!_ ” Salgant whimpered into his pillow, nearly in tears; “Everything is agony! How will I do this again tomorrow? My legs are on fire... I can barely move."

"At least you _can_ move,” Maeglin snorted, but without malice. His own pillow was used to carefully support his broken arm, while a spare blanket had been tucked under his still fragile hip.

“...I used to work the bellows for him sometimes. I found it very calming. I’m sure you’ll get used to it in a few days.”

Salgant answered with a sustained groan of misery that was stifled by his mattress.

Maeglin laughed, and for a moment there was comfortable silence between them. The subterranean room had no windows and only a few allotted candles that they had been instructed not to waste; once the door shut, even Maeglin’s sharp eyes could not not see his friend a few feet away.

“You’re not weak, Salgant,” he said softly into the dark room, “You walk everywhere, and carry those great tomes around with you. I’ve seen you stay on your feet all day and night cooking for festival days. You would roll out enough dough for a dozen kinds of pie; even the cooks couldn’t keep up.”

“--And I ate as many pies! I walk because I hate riding, and I never had very far to go in the inner ring! I slept on a soft bed, with a fireplace, and lots of candles! There is a world of difference between that and this!” Salgant sighed,  “…I do wish I’d kept my pendant lamp. It doesn’t feel right to sleep when it’s so completely black..."

"Orcs do not like Noldor lanterns; the light hurts their eyes. But I’ve seen them confiscated before… I will ask if we may have one."

There was a creak of a mattress and the shuffle of feet on the floor.

"Maeglin, wait! I cannot see you. I’m afraid that I may wake up and you’ll have vanished, and I’ll be alone here. I’m... _frightened_."

"...Hold on a moment."

There was the sound of dragging, and a curse directed at a jostled injury.

"There--"  

One straw mattress bumped up against the other, rustling as its occupant rolled towards the center.

"I’m here. You’re not alone. And neither am I now."

In the dark, the two boys lay together like nested spoons, careful of each other’s hurts. Salgant sighed, and felt long fingers brush the tears from his eyelashes, before they closed in sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

Angband was a working military fortress, not a palace-- for all that it housed the Dark Lord himself with his famed iron crown. There were few luxuries to spare even amongst the captains and the elite; certainly none for captives and thralls. Ranking somewhere nebulously between these two positions, Sauron’s apprentices were used to receiving sufficient, though frugal rations.

“As you know, it wasn’t very long ago that we were under prolonged siege ourselves. Our supplies are what you’d expect for the end of a 500 year long campaign…” Sauron had explained to them; “Alas, for the moment I cannot tempt you with more marvelous food and drink than what my captains take, and what is indulgent to an Orc may not be at all appetizing to an Elf.”

They’d accepted this without complaint, not wanting to discover whatever it was that Orcs _did_ find indulgent.

Not even a month had gone past, however, before rations began to double. Maeglin was the first to notice, having subsisted on the meager fare for much longer.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this full after they’ve fed me…” he commented after pushing aside an unfinished portion of dark bread and dried meat, “They must have replenished their stores somehow.”

“Don’t think about it,” Salgant urged, but happily accepted the extras from Maeglin’s plate.

Lately he’d been working up appetites greater than he’d ever known, even surrounded by the finest food a lord of a House could ask for. The last thing he’d ever have expected was to be asking for seconds of Orcish rations.

A few more weeks passed, and the forge stayed lit with fewer and fewer pauses from the bellows, although the pain in Salgant’s limbs continued to agonize him at night-- and while the labor had thus far _not_ transformed from a plump caterpillar into the lithe and strapping butterfly he’d imagined, he discovered that the long stairs to the forge no longer winded him, and many of his aches and pains, some of which had vexed him even during his life of ease in Gondolin, had vanished altogether. Even the blisters on his hands had begun to smooth over into protective calluses, and no longer gave him trouble.   
  
He began to notice certain changes in himself; he hadn’t changed shape exactly, but he noted that many parts of him wobbled less when he walked. If he had to describe it, he’d say that his arms, thighs, and backside were perhaps more _bouncy_ than _jiggly_ now; they had a new core of firmness under their plush exterior. To his chagrin, however, his belly refused to change at all, hanging as soft and pendulously as it ever had over his waist.  Stepping off the bellows for the day, Salgant sighed and pulled his shirt over its familiar expanse grudgingly-- unaware that his private moment of inspection had been observed.

The following day, their morning repast was delivered to their room with some surprising additions:

“ _Varda Aratarya_ … is this butter? And cheese?”

“Eggs! Boiled eggs!”

“And can these be dried damsons?” Salgant looked near to tears, “I swear to you I was on the brink of forgetting fruit existed.”

Maeglin gave a muffled grunt in reply, already tearing into a heel of stale but buttered bread like a wild animal. The difference in effect between this and their usual fare was apparent almost immediately; Orcs and Men might eat well on meat and stew for days on end, but to the elves that diet seemed to drain them of more energy than it bestowed. Soon they were both laughing and licking their fingers, just as if they’d been on a merry picnic in the sun.

There was one more small item in their serving tray, wrapped in cloth and tucked in a corner. Salgant reached for it curiously and as he unbound it, he and Maeglin both swooned as they inhaled the heady perfume of almonds and sugar.   
Two little lumps of molded marzipan in the shape of what had probably once been a pair of hedgehogs were stuck together back-to-back, slightly the worse for wear. For a moment, neither could do anything but stare, hovering over the dainty treats as if waiting for a cue. Finally, Salgant unstuck the lumps with trembling reverence, careful to divide them evenly down to the last crumb. He placed the sweet in the center of Maeglin’s palm with gentle, sticky fingers.

They sat in silence, broken only by an occasional note of bliss as they nibbled their way through the delicacy like two mice, making it last as long as they could. When they were done, they licked their lips and sighed.

“...Where do you think they came from?” Salgant asked at last.

“I don’t know. But not from here,” Maeglin answered softly.

Neither wanted to open the door to guilt until they’d finished savoring the last bit of sweetness, but it knocked all the same.

As they cleaned up and readied themselves for work, Salgant imagined himself looking down on Thangorodrim as though it were a giant anthill, long scribbled black lines of orcs running in and out, carrying the plunder from Beleriand like lumps of sugar on their backs.  


	2. Strange Bedfellows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--WARNING FOR EXPLICIT MATERIAL AT END OF CHAPTER  
> \--Minor warnings for dysmorphia / body negativity / self hatred  
> \--Death mention at end of chapter  
> \--Sauron is a big ol' hairy pervert

That evening, when they made their way to the forge they were stopped on the landing by a colossal voice that echoed throughout the hollow mountain.

“ **_Take care my little elves, you’ll need stops in your ears today._ ** ”

Salgant helped Maeglin stop his ears with waxed linen plugs before he did the same for his own. As they’d come to expect, the anvil and furnace were scaled up to the size of a hill, making them feel like rodents creeping out of a hole in the wall.

Sauron towered above them, no longer shaped or dressed like a Man but rather a giant made of smoldering stone, his eyes glowing like magma and his hammer red in his hand. An enormous length of black iron curled up from his anvil, with more equal segments waiting to be shaped to match it.

This was not the first time they had seen him like this, but they doubted the sight would ever be less staggering.

“ **_No bellows for now,_ ** ” the Maia said as softly as he could manage, his voice still resonating in their blocked ears, “ **_Work with Maeglin until I am finished._ ** ”

Maeglin’s injuries still prevented him from lifting anything more substantial than a heavy book, so Salgant found himself shifting armfuls of metal remnants from table to shelf all while the ground quaked under him. By the time the pounding stopped, his forehead was dripping and his arms ached so much he was almost looking forward to returning to the foot-bellows if it meant he could rest them.

The forge shrunk and shifted around them as though they were looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope; the process no less nauseating than it had been on the first day. Sauron, having returned to his accustomed height, stood regarding the completed stack of what looked like huge iron ribs that now dwarfed everything in his workshop. He looked unusually pleased.

“You’re in rare form today. What are you making?” Maeglin asked with obvious interest, hobbling over from his table, “Is it a weapon?”

“No,” Sauron chuckled, “I know how keen you are on siege weapons my apprentice, but in fact this is just the opposite: this will be the treadwheel of a crane.”

“So big? What for?” Maeglin gaped, while Salgant tried to piece together what they were talking about.

Sauron patted the huge iron wheel rims fondly; “For everything! Bridges, dams, towers, mines, aqueducts... We’ve spent a good five hundred years knocking things down, while trying not to be knocked down ourselves-- now it is time to start building again. A welcome change indeed.”

The elves exchanged an uncomfortable glance and shifted their feet.

“...Speaking of which,” Sauron looked over his shoulder, “did you enjoy your breakfast?”

Both elves looked up at once to say “ _yes!_ ” with gusto, before remembering to feel guilty.

Only Maeglin quick eyes caught a glimpse of the forgemaster’s smile widening in satisfaction before he looked away again.

“Good, good. I’m happy to say there is more where that came from. Supplies are coming in faster than we can store them.”

“I do thank you--” Salgant broke in suddenly, surprising himself with his boldness, “But I hope… that is, meaning no offense, I don’t mean to question the gift-- but I hope this boon did not come at the expense of our fellows, er, downstairs?”

Sauron turned to look down on him then, his eyebrow raised.

“The slaves and captives, you mean?”

Salgant gulped and nodded.

“They are being provided for,” he said brusquely, “any excess in our storehouses will benefit them as well as us. But they aren’t being treated to preserves and butter, if that’s what you’re asking. Those are for our special guests--” he paused, his eyes crinkling with humor, “--And it is my prerogative to spoil you both as I see fit.”

Sauron surprised them by stepping between them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders in camaraderie and stooping to the level of their eyes.

“...This needn’t be a grim place for you, my little elves, especially not with a new era on the horizon,” he said gently, and then gave Salgant a conspicuous, shameless wink, “--Besides, I’d hate to ruin a beautiful figure like yours.”

Salgant turned red up to his ears.

At this Sauron barked a laugh and returned to his anvil, singing one of his forge songs as he began drawing out a bar of steel, hammering in time to the beat.  

“I wonder what’s happened to put him in such high spirits,” Maeglin muttered.

“...I do wish he wouldn’t tease like that,” Salgant frowned, chewing the knuckle of his thumb, “ _Winking_ at me for enjoying a bit of butter… ‘ _beautiful figure’_ indeed! Does he think I’ve never seen a mirror? Absurd.”

Maeglin said nothing, squinting at Sauron’s back with suspicion.  

From then on, whenever the two took meals together in the forge, it seemed there was always something a little extra and particularly tantalizing on their trays-- and particularly when Salgant cooed in appreciation over some dainty gift, Maeglin noticed the forgemaster was never far away, a gleam in his eye and a secret smile on his lips.   

 

* * *

 

 

It was on a particularly early shift one night that Salgant found himself waking long after the usual first horn call. Maeglin was nowhere in sight; the mattress beside him lay empty.

He jerked upright in bed.

Why hadn’t his friend woken him? Had he been so deep asleep that Maeglin had been unable to rouse him? Had he given up and gone downstairs to make excuses for him?

 _Oh no no no no,_ ” Salgant groaned, stumbling out into the chilly air and cursing himself as he threw on his clothes.

As he did so, he glimpsed a parcel sitting open on the the washstand; sitting in a wrapper of white linen was a bundle of what looked like candied chestnuts, fruit, and a pair of crumbling sweet tarts.

His mouth _watered_ \-- but there was no time to do more than pop a few loose sweets in his mouth. He didn’t want to eat any if Maeglin hadn’t had a chance to try them, and it wouldn’t do to rush through such an extravagant treat. Wasting no more time, Salgant hopped out the door on one foot, tugging on his shoe.

Leaping down the stairs in such a hurry with no breakfast took its toll as he rounded the last bend and he had to stop for breath on the landing. While he stood there panting, Salgant realized he’d stumbled into earshot of a conversation taking place in the forge without him.

_“…is not the point! You know what I mean!”_

There was an exasperated timbre to the voice which he recognized as Maeglin’s.

“Are you jealous, my apprentice?” followed a rumbling chuckle, “You know I am fond of you, yet you have never asked me.”

Salgant’s heart pounded-- this was _certainly_ not for his ears.

Sneaking back up the stairs now would only make him later, but interrupting the conversation would be intolerably embarrassing… Feeling foolish, he lingered on the step until curiosity got the better of his conscience.

“That is not how courtship _works!_ ” Maeglin’s voice came again, exasperated; “Courtship is a dance! A slow meeting of wills, subtle hints until one’s meaning can be _deduced_ . It’s… it’s _poetry_ , not a transaction!”

“Isn’t it?” now Sauron’s voice lilted with amusement, “Well I suppose a famous lover such as yourself would know. But as for me, I prefer to ask-- with words, mostly, and sometimes gestures."

Salgant felt a familiar heaviness in his breast, but was not without happiness for his friend. _Of course he is fond of Maeglin, who wouldn’t be?_

"Yet you have _not_ asked.”  

“No, not yet,” came a long, whimsical sigh, “Perhaps today.”

“You won’t dare!”

“I beg your pardon, apprentice. Were you planning on stopping me?"

There was a resigned huff.

“No. I can’t stop you and I suppose it’s not my place to try. But know that if you hurt him—” Salgant held his breath, craning to hear as the voice lowered, “...I will find a way to make you sorry. Somehow. I mean it. He is my friend."

"This I know. You needn’t worry."

 _How confusing…_ Salgant shook his head. _Who’s courting whom? And who is Maeglin concerned for?_

His face grew warm thinking that perhaps Maeglin was trying to spare _his_ feelings. _Silly boy... Court whomever you like, I’ve never minded. Don’t you realize I want you to be happy?_

Salgant decided after all to take a few quiet steps back up the stairwell, waiting a few moments before skipping down again, hurrying into the forge as though his only concern was being late.  

"Forgive me, forgive me! I overslept somehow, I must have been deep in Irmo’s garden. I hope I haven’t delayed you!” he made a show of being out of breath and gave a quick bow to both Sauron and Maeglin, preparing at once to swing onto the bellows as usual.

But the forgemaster put out a hand, wearing an expansive, magnanimous grin.

“Oh, we had not yet started! Happily for _you_ , tardy one,” he winked, “In fact, today is a day of celebration-- nearly all production is on hold for the three days, and there will be a mighty feast for all the troops. Even the thralls are resting."

"A feast? Oh, I wish you’d told me! I’m quite good with parties, I might have made something for the three of us! Or written a song, though, I haven’t my harp anymore...” Salgant pressed his palms together, happy to be given an excuse to forget the eavesdropped conversation.

“Was that why there was a lovely package of sweetmeats in the room when I woke?”

Sauron’s eyes crinkled and glittered. “Did you like that?” he purred, hands clasped behind his back secretively, “There is more--"  

With a gesture he produced another small, wrapped bundle, this one tied with silk ribbon. From the familiar scent of sugar and almonds, it was clear what the bundle contained.

Salgant gasped. Maeglin stared at the forgemaster with sharp, serious eyes, unblinking.

"I had to hide these away just for you. My Master, you see, also enjoys such sweets,” Sauron continued with a sly smile, “If he knew you had them, he’d come gobble them up, and you with them. So they are our little secret, yes?”

“Oh dear,” Salgant gulped, hesitating with his hand on his chest, “I… I don’t wish to upset Morg-- your master.”

“Don’t fret,” he laughed, “with all Angband making merry, he will take no notice.”

“What is being celebrated?" Maeglin asked, eyeing the gift and the giver warily, “You never told me.”

Sauron beamed, "Why, the end of the Finwëan menace, of course! Our conquest of Beleriand and all its kingdoms-- the end of five centuries of war!"

Salgant gave a small hiccup. "Conquest?"

Somehow, hearing it made the it real in their hearts for the first time: It was done. The elves had lost. _They_ had lost. But what did that mean, here in the heart of the Iron Hells, where they worked and broke bread with the servants of Morgoth?

"Surely you knew?” the forgemaster folded his huge arms, “Gondolin fell, the sons of Fëanor have all scattered or fallen, Doriath is in ruin… there is no longer any force in Beleriand that can raise arms against us. My Master’s triumph is complete.”

“…Even if he is one Silmaril short of a crown…” muttered Maeglin.

 _“HOLD thy tongue!_ ” the voice that had purred now snarled, and the glittering eyes shrank to thin slits of fire. “ _Thou wilt not speak so brazenly of the Mighty Arising in my presence!”_

And Sauron was suddenly very much larger, and darker, and less beautiful than he had been a moment earlier. The forge, still cold, flared red and menacing.

Salgant had not realized how safe he had begun to feel around the Maia until he no longer felt so.

Maeglin looked as though he’d been turned to chalk. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice now small, “forgive me.”

After a moment Sauron took a deep breath and seemed to compose himself, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture; the darkness and the unnatural fire dispersed as quickly as they’d come.

“It is forgotten,” he said. “Let us turn our thoughts to happier subjects— to the uncontested rule of Angband in the North, Lord Melkor’s victory, and to the building of a better, freer Arda."

The two elves exchanged glances, unsure what to say at this contradiction.

Noting the tense discomfort that had grown between them, the lieutenant beckoned them over with a sigh and knelt to their level, his eyes now creased and almost kind. He propped an arm on his knee, palm open and extended.

“...I know you do not see it yet, but this is the beginning, not the end. The war is _over_ . You are no longer the enemy but _subjects_ in my Master’s kingdom-- and subjects who have already served him well!”

Maeglin’s back straightened as he listened, and Sauron continued;

“There is room at last for my Master’s children to spread and thrive! Soon we will begin an era free of the stifling rule of the Valar’s Theme, where all the unwanted, all the bastards of Eru may live as they please. And my Lord… my Lord can finally rest, and heal, and become golden and lovesome in himself again!” he sighed, tremulous in his mighty chest, “…Is that not worth celebrating, my elves?"

"It is,” said Maeglin, resolute. He laid his hand on top the smith’s and curled his pale fingers around it tightly. But Salgant hesitated still.

“…What of the thralls?” he asked, his voice sounding dull and insignificant in the wake of such a grand speech.

“Ah…” the forgemaster licked his lips, choosing his words carefully; “They are yet prisoners of war, and will be treated as such until they earn their freedom. Those who are amenable to my Master’s rule will be released in due time, but others who are _not_ so amenable…” he shrugged, “they may continue to be thralls, or be exiled into the wastes, or else they will be killed. We must be sure that those who bore arms against us will not do so again. Such is the way of regimes, I’m afraid... When they change, there is blood.” Sauron’s tone was resigned; not unsympathetic, but not remorseful either.

"It seems very reasonable when you say it like that, but then…" Salgant shook his head and snorted, "...I was only ever a minor lord, of a small House. I was never much good with politics."

At last he took the smith’s hand, and when he did, he was rewarded with a handsome smile, and a chaste kiss upon his knuckles that made Salgant’s head grow very light, and his palms tingly.   
Seeing this, Maeglin slipped his hand out from underneath, and gave both his friend and the forgemaster’s hands a warm squeeze before withdrawing.

Sauron’s glittering eyes were fixed on him alone now; "You will have time enough to consider politics later, dear Salgant. For now, I wish for you to be joyful, and know that you are free to leave if you wish-- but if you wish to stay, you are _exceedingly_ welcome.”

A second kiss, much less chaste, dusted Salgant’s fingers, lingering especially on their blushing, padded tips.

The elf’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment and glanced up, hoping his friend had not noticed this salacious display... But Maeglin had slipped away as silently as a shadow. He was nowhere in the forge.

Something very peculiar was going on.

“I very much enjoy your company, Salgant... I enjoy the sight of you, the sounds and smell of you. Every day in the forge you have given me the gift of some rare, perfect sight that I will keep as a treasure in my memory. Sweet, soft Salgant! I have never seen a more comely elf. Would you—”

The forgemaster would have continued, but Salgant began to laugh, a reedy sound that contained no merriment.

“Such jokes! Ah, such jokes, I thought perhaps I’d left them behind, but it seems they’ve followed me even here. You are very funny, my lord, well played."

Salgant looked around the forge for Maeglin, hoping he would return now that the tactless prank was over. He had a very strong desire to run back to his room and hide in the darkest corner until he sank into the earth.

Sauron blinked and stared in utter bewilderment-- an expression he’d never worn before in their presence. "I-- but--” he cleared his throat, “I am sorry you found that… amusing. I only wanted to know if you wished to go to bed with me. Is that such a distasteful proposition?” His yellow eyes looked as pleading as a hound denied a treat at the table.

“ _A distasteful proposition? Of course it is!_ ” Salgant scowled, an equally unknown expression for his round face. His hand jerked away, its short fingers balling into a fist.

“Do you think I enjoy it? Being taunted and mocked for things I cannot have? I have lived my whole life in the shadow of them-- Forgive me if I do not see the humor in pointing them out!"

"I was not—"

” _Even you!_ “

Salgant found himself carried by the momentum of his own emotion, unable to stop even at Sauron’s incongruously alarmed face, or be overwhelmed by mortification at his own bluntness.

"I suppose I should have expected it from one they call The Cruel, but even so! Do you know how happy I’ve been here? Despite everything? I have never felt so _useful,_ so… so _wanted_ ... _”_  

Just as if it had been his first, exhausting day at the bellows, Salgant found his breath hitching and he covered his head with his hands; hot tears ran down his large nose that he was beyond hiding. The little package of sweets slid to the ground, unopened.

“It’s not my fault I look the way I do. No one could figure out why I’m like this; how an elf could be so…” he grimaced, “so f-fat, so ungraceful. I liked baking and I liked songs and stories… maybe because I was never good at anything else, and I could be alone, and not… surrounded by people who pitied me, or were disgusted by me, or looked and moved like I never could. Maybe I do belong here, with all the monsters and unwanted things. I m-must belong h-h-h--”

He could not finish, hiccupping and sniffling as quietly as he could, trying not to imagine how he must look like quivering gelatin while he cried.  

A warm and heavy hand touched the crown of Salgant’s head, smoothing its stray curls.

“It is astounding how cruel pity can be."

Sauron stood above him, and the pads of his rough fingers stroked the elf’s cheek. “You have a great deal in common with your friend, you know. He too came to me in tears, thinking happiness too good for him. My lonely, lovely pair of outcasts…"

_Only you were never false to me, Salgant. Only you never looked at me and saw the kinless bastard of a murderer, a responsibility to be shouldered..._

"I am—” Salgant snuffled wetly, “not lovely."

"You are _unbearably_ lovely,” Sauron barked a laugh, putting a hand to his brow as if to shield his eyes;

“The instant Maeglin pointed you out to me, I thought _‘now there’s an uncommon gem_ ’. I’ve seen Men and Khazad so luscious, but never an Elf. I am so accustomed to these long, stringy creatures I could pick my teeth with being touted as the pinnacle of beauty... I’ve always said the Quendi have no taste, and this only proves it. How could anyone look at you and not _burn_ to… to…” he growled and pushed his hand through his dark hair in a rare show of frustration that untucked a few curls from their perfect knot.

“...You do not know what torture it was to have you so close and not touch you. Believe me when I say I cannot fathom that you were not considered the very height of elven beauty.”

Salgant’s tears began to dry, and he managed the start of a giggle, “Me? Not Luthien?”

“Luthien too had her merits,” Sauron admitted with a hand raised in faith, “particularly from the back; but if you’ll pardon my saying, not your delicious full moon of a belly that I could _plant my face in_ —”

Salgant flushed red and the forgemaster bit his lip with an agonized look.

“Ah, pardon... I am becoming crude. And overheated. Perhaps I should adjourn, and give you some time in which to think?" he inhaled deeply, regaining his composure and sweeping back his ringleted hair. "Yes. Yes, I think that’s for the best. Good evening, master Salgant. Please, consider my offer to stand indefinitely, should you wish to accept. If you need me…. simply ask."

And with that, Sauron strode out of the forge, with slightly less poise than was his custom.

 

 

* * *

 

Waiting in their room, Maeglin wore a smug smile, his good arm tucked under his head. "Well that was quick. Did you turn him down?”

“We… I…  He...” Salgant pressed his lips together, and suddenly heaved a huge sigh.

“Oh dear, I am a fool, a blubbering, ridiculous fool!”   

This seemed to deflate him, and he slumped to the mattress and put his head into his pillow, groaning. “Maeglin, why must everything be so difficult, and painful? Even pleasant things?"

"Painful? Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?” Maeglin rose suddenly, a cold fire raging in his eyes.

“No! No, nothing like that-- though you are dear to me for asking. I am fine. Only confused, and... feeling too many things at once."

"I am sorry,” his friend sat heavily beside him, knees tucked against his narrow chest. “You of all people deserve something good that is also simple, if that is what you desire,” Maeglin twined his slender fingers with those of his friend’s.

“I am not certain that what I desire is… a good thing.”

The dark elf scoffed. “Who knows what is good and what isn’t anymore? We are Golodhrim traitors serving the Dark Foe of the World, who has won, and is now simply Dark _Lord_ of the World. What else is there to do now, except seek out what makes us happy and hope that it lasts?”

He squeezed Salgant’s hand. “ _You_ make me happy, and I am glad that you are with me, whatever else happens."

Maeglin lay his head next to Salgant’s and pressed him sweetly with a kiss.

Salgant blinked and sputtered; "Twice! Twice in a day! I’ve gone all my life without so many kisses! What spell are you all under?”  

Maeglin laughed, and the two embraced, one all hard angles and the other soft curves, both glad in each other’s company.

“Thû… is very handsome. And charming. And I do not doubt that he finds you attractive. He would be a fine and experienced lover I’m sure. But if you do choose to go with him, promise me you won’t let him break your heart?” Maeglin asked solemnly; “You must remember he is not like us-- he is, first and foremost, a soldier and a servant of his master. Even if he cares for you, he belongs body and soul to another. Let him be sweet with you, and love you, but love yourself more. Can you promise me that?" Maeglin’s brow rested against Salgant’s, his dark eyes shut.

"I promise,” Salgant smiled. “I too, love another."

 

 

* * *

 

He lay awake long after the lights went out, hearing Maeglin’s steady breathing beside him. His thoughts stirred together in the silence, warm and restless, recalling memories and words with fresh clarity as he pulled his arms around himself. It was strange to think that just outside the walls of his experience, there had always been a world outside in which he was seen as desirable. Gondolin had been his whole world for so long; it was easy to forget how small it was in the scheme of things, how isolated it was from new ideas and customs. Its traditions built on themselves for centuries without outside influence, the people of the court circulating but never changing; when anyone left or arrived it caused upheaval. If the walls had never come down, how long would he have stayed there? Lonely, coping, afraid; an island within an island.

He stroked his arm idly, feeling the new core of muscle beneath a plush lining of fat, and for once, found it sensual. His skin was very smooth, unbroken except for a few lines of strain that puckered the undersides of his arms and the tops of his hips. He pressed on the curve of his belly and the sensation heated his blood unexpectedly. He so seldom touched himself, even when he dreamed of being touched; in his mind, he was always anonymous-- he’d never thought to include _himself_ in his own fantasies. But now he tried it, thinking of hard-calloused hands on his chest and stomach, velvet lips on the tips of his fingers... He shifted on the mattress and struggled to keep his breathing discreet; he did not want to disturb Maeglin from his much-needed rest.

Quietly, cautiously, Salgant removed himself from bed, feeling around for a candleholder. Shielding the little light he slipped out of the room in just his nightshirt. He wasn’t afraid; the hallways of the fortress were familiar to him now, and the dark was comforting, like a blanket rather than a shroud. The distant clunks and groans were only the sound of the mountains breathing. Even the muffled cacophony of Orcish laughter held no horror for him; just soldiers feasting, drinking, celebrating a break from toil.

Under his bare feet the floor of the forge was smooth and cold; all was dark except for his flickering candle, the furnaces empty and still.

“Sauron?” the name left a faint echo in the hollow chamber, and he waited.

After a moment the call was answered by the sound of footfalls, and a thrill shot up Salgant’s spine. Sheltering his candle hear his chest so it would not gutter, he turned and faced the forgemaster standing in partial darkness, whose keen eyes flickering with fire.

"I needn’t tell you, I’m not very experienced in these matters…” Salgant fumbled, “I hope you don’t think I’m not excited-- I am! Only… I don’t want to disappoint you."

"You,” Sauron rumbled, licking his lips, “could not disappoint me if you _tried_." He reached out and put a finger under Salgant’s chin, tipped up his face and kissed him.

It was different than Salgant expected (the beard, for one, was a surprise)-- much wetter and more intimate in person than in his imagination. It took a several passes before he was blushing and leaning close, standing on the balls of his feet and reaching up to stroke the forgemaster’s neck. A deeply satisfied noise against his lips tickled him, and he squeaked, feeling a hand clamp around his backside with a hearty squeeze and jiggle.

“ _Hells_ , how long I’ve wanted to do that...” the forgemaster growled into his hair, scooping him up from the bottom with both hands and pulling him flush against his torso. “Let’s retire somewhere more comfortable, unless you want me to take you over a worktable, or my anvil,” he grinned wolfishly; “I’d be happy with the anvil, truly, you need only say the word if you’d prefer the anvil.”

“Hah!” Salgant laughed with chattering teeth, bouncing up and down with his hands under his arms, “I’d prefer somewhere warmer, in fact. My feet are quite frozen.”

“I’ve an easy solution for that--”

Sauron stooped and lifted him off the floor with ease, carrying him as though he were a damsel in a swoon. Salgant’s toes were grateful to be off the cold floor, but now there was a substantial draft around the his lower half as his nightshirt hiked up over his waist.

There was a lurching, spinning sensation as the space around them shifted just as it did when the forge was growing or shrinking, and suddenly all faded to black.

Salgant blinked, as a new scene came into focus. They were somewhere he’d never been before; a room lit with four heavy braziers at each corner, warming the air and casting an intimate, orange light over the single bed at its center.

There was little else in the chamber besides the low berth, a water laver, and a stand for necessities. The bed did not look like it was used for sleeping in, heaped with cushions and furs as it was, yet lacking any bedclothes. Ainur did not require sleep, Salgant knew, and so the very existence of a bed begged the question if its only purpose were facilitating trysts. As his feet touched earth again he kneaded his toes into the rush mat, waiting for his fluttering nerves to calm.  

There was a rustling and shuffle of cloth and leather being shed, and he felt the gravity of a warm, solid body standing behind him, tickling where the furred belly met the small of his back. Two large hands clasped his shoulders; they stroked his plump arms before moving down to his hips, gently squeezing the heavy folds of his sides and grasping the flesh over his hips like handles, swaying him backwards.

Salgant gulped, feeling blood rise up his cheeks as a warm, firm protrusion nudged his backside, rocking gently against him.

He heard a sigh, and Sauron muttered something behind him in a language he’d never heard before.

“What are you saying?”

“A prayer,” said Sauron, “thanking my maker for seeing fit to craft me with a prick long enough to get past the cheeks of your glorious ass.”

Salgant covered his beet-red face and made a sound somewhere between laughter and a boiling kettle.

“You’re awful!”

“Famously so!” Sauron grinned, nipping at Salgant’s ear with kisses and encouraging him to slide his nightshirt off over his tousled head.  
  
Salgant squeaked and chewed his fingers as his buttocks were grasped, bounced, and given a round smack.

Whispering something reverent into the curls atop Salgant’s head, Sauron eased his hands over the globe of the elf’s belly, tucking beneath it and letting the weight of it settle heavy in his palms. Salgant shivered. Each stroke palpitated his belly, sending little waves and ripples through his soft midriff with a sensation so decadent it was almost obscene. Salgant inhaled with a shudder, turning his head to one side with a hot blush on his face, cutting off a moan as he bit his lip.

"Do you like that?" Sauron’s voice in his ear sounded drunk, “Is that what you like, my sweet?”

Salgant nodded quickly, chest shuddering. Teeth nipped and pulled at the base of his neck, two huge arms wrapping around him completely, pulling him close so that the plump curves of his backside pillowed against Sauron’s hips. A whimpering exhalation escaped Salgant, high and needy, and suddenly he was pulled around into a fearsome kiss. He felt the smith’s erection cushioned against his belly, hard and hot as a new-quenched rod.   

“Let me fuck you” the smith hissed hungrily, “let me devour you.”

“I’ve never done… I don’t know if…”

“I don’t need to enter you to fuck you. There are so many ways. Please, please let me show you…”

Salgant nodded.

Sauron growled happily, kissed him again, and pulled Salgant onto the bed, draped heavily atop his chest. Getting comfortable, Salgant found his nose buried in the thick track of hair running down the center of the torso beneath him. It was surprisingly pleasant.

 _But then, I’ve never met anything furry I didn’t like_ , he thought.  

He experimented by kissing Sauron’s chest and arms, his neck, his jaw, and finally lips. The smith cooed and rumbled beneath him, returning each kiss eagerly while fondling and kneading everything that fell under his searching palms.

Eventually the smith called for a pause, rolling to one side in order to pursue a lacquered tray sitting on the bedstand. He walked his long fingers thoughtfully across a row little jars and fluted bottles, humming with deliberation, murmuring a pleased “ _aha_ ” as he settled on a bottle of amber liquid and removed its stopper. A fragrance like freshly carved wood filled the air as Sauron filled his palms with oil, dripping and gleaming gold between his fingers.

Salgant concluded privately that this bedroom was indeed only intended for trysting, and smothered an amused snort.

Sauron grinned and knelt at the side of the bed, indicating with a tilt of his head for Salgant to scoot forward.

“Here, lay down. Knees up."

Repositioning himself, Salgant did as he was bidden, worrying his lip as he drew up his legs, nerves once again singing at being so exposed, looked at with such scrutiny.

Liquid silk suddenly rolled over his breast and across his ribs and Salgant gasped-- oil was spread lovingly over his thighs and stomach, smoothed across his rump and between his legs. Putting a knuckle between his teeth he sighed and arched into the luxurious massage, and when Sauron purred and moved to anoint Salgant’s sex, the elf jumped and flinched.

“Oh! I don’t—! It’s alright, you needn’t."

"...Needn’t? But I insist!” Sauron lilted, “Every inch of you should glisten, slippery as you were the first day at the bellows, and as fragrant.”

Salgant’s expression was appalled.

“I _reeked_ when I first started! I was sweating a river!"

There came a strange, moaning chuckle from the smith.

"Oh my sweet, you have no idea. _Drown_ me in that scent, smother me in it! It is the very perfume of love."

"You _are_ a beast!” Salgant laughed, covering his face.

“That I am! The worst that ever was,” grinned Sauron slyly, “Who could blame you for being overcome by such a dreadful creature? Let me gobble you up, I’ll be ever so gentle…"

He bent over and kissed the elf’s oiled chest, balancing his weight carefully as he to slid Salgant’s arm up past his head and buried his face under the elf’s arm. Salgant squirmed and laughed, blushing as the smith nuzzled him hungrily, licking his fresh sweat away with a deep rumble of happiness. When it was too much for the elf’s modesty he kissed him and withdrew, sliding back down between Salgant’s legs. He stroked and petted the elf’s thighs, fingers crooked and coaxing his pert testicles until he relaxed under the touch, taking them gently in hand and rolling them together, slick with oil.

"You are so beautiful... Please, don’t be afraid to tell me what you want."

"What you’re doing now is w-wonderful,” Salgant shut his eyes.

Sauron smiled, and plucked at the elf’s coral-tipped breasts, rolling each nipple between thumb and finger. Salgant shuddered and inhaled through his nose sharply.

“And this?”

“ _Hngh--_ ”

"Perhaps this?” the smith asked again, stroking his belly, patting it and sending tremors all the way to his loins, “Or… this?”

He pulled apart the elf’s cheeks and thumbed the dimpled entrance between them. When Salgant gave a hiccuping whine in response, he laughed.   
  
“Oh yes. I think this is the _perfect_ place to start..."

What happened next was not something that Salgant ever imagined would occur between two individuals who fancied each other.

Sauron pulled Salgant closer to the edge of the bed, and stooped low. He kissed the elf’s round thighs, pushing them up so his knees were folded on either side of his belly, exposing his ass like a ripe, halved peach.

Salgant felt the bristle-roughness of Sauron’s beard tickling the most _alarming_ place, and the most guttural groan between his legs, before a warm tongue lapped his entrance.

He squealed and balled fists, turning his face to once side and burying it into the bed furs, not quite believing what was happening or how good it felt. The forgemaster kissed his hole, fluttering, licking, teasing-- then he spat, his lips slick and messy as they nuzzled into the valley between his cheeks, his pointed tongue delicately pushing him open again and again, deep and probing.   
  
Shame and embarrassment knocked on the door to Salgant’s conscience, and for once, he slammed the door upon them and bolted the lock.

He felt his balls palmed and jostled while his hole was plumbed and tugged and stretched open one glorious fraction of an inch at a time, sounds of appreciative moaning staggering from just beyond his view. With a slurp, the wet mouth against his ass slid up to his balls and sucked them deeply, one by one, then moved to take the erect button of his cock between its lips.

"Ah, ah, ah! _Arata Valar!_ ”

“Leave the Valar out of this,” said Sauron’s muffled voice. And Salgant did not argue, thumping the bed silently with his fists as he quivered, his back bowed.

His belly rose in a smooth hill between him and the bobbing head between his legs-- rough hands reached up and caressed it, pressed it, the pressure of it sending immediate, exquisite warmth to his groin.

Salgant choked out a deep sigh, hot and shameless, his thighs spreading open and his hips twitching. Sauron nursed the shining head of the elf’s cock in his mouth, passing it over and between his lips in turns, savoring it-- then he paused, leaving Salgant panting.

“What--?”

“I want you on top of me,” he answered, his glittering eyes half-lidded as he crawled over Salgant, covering him and kissing him feverishly, “on my face, on my cock-- ride me.”

Salgant sputtered, amazed that he was not yet beyond embarrassment. “Won’t I be too… won’t I crush you?”

“Only if you love me,” Sauron bit his lip with a piteously imploring look.

Salgant blushed and rolled aside; they swapped places, Sauron lying on his back and beckoning for him to crawl atop him.

Salgant’s belly swung beneath him as he straddled the smith, who clutched its pliant bulk with a look of pure adoration. Salgant felt the formidable length of Sauron’s cock against the slippery cleft of his backside, and feeling a bit bold with his newfound worldliness, he rocked back against it, shifting his weight to press it underneath him. He was rewarded by Sauron tipping back his head with a moaned expletive, clinging hard to Salgant’s buttocks and thighs like a man drowning. The elf laughed giddily and repeated the motion with a bounce, watching, gratified, as the smith bared his teeth and gasped out a tremulous note in his bass voice that made Salgant redden all the more.

Back and forth he rolled his hips without tiring, his thighs hard from months of forge work under their plush exterior.   
  
“Do _you_ like that?” he asked sweetly.

Sauron voice was no more than a husky whisper as he nodded in affirmation, pumping his hips into the yielding, engulfing pressure, his exhortations increasingly urgent and unintelligible.

Salgant felt the smith’s coarse palm around his cock, tugging it against the overhang of his belly with even, insistent strokes, his fingers deftly swirling slick around its head and pushing deep against his sack. He quivered, suddenly entirely sure that he’d underestimated himself completely in what he wanted and could endure.

He held himself up and reached beneath him, hearing the smith give a high, begging moan as he grasped his prick and pressed the tip into his entrance carefully. He held his breath, lowering himself by inches, feeling Sauron quivering beneath him, until he’d reached his limit. His breath escaped him slowly as he adjusted to the girth, finding that his body was more willing and able to accommodate such an intrusion than he’d ever imagined-- so much so that he suddenly regretted having lost so many years to useless celibacy, without even trying more than a finger in himself. Mouth hanging open in bliss, it was Salgant’s turn to groan with loud, hungry abandon, rocking backward onto Sauron’s prick-- which was indeed sufficiently long to to pass the pillows of his buttocks.

Sauron lifted his hips in time to his rocking, at first doing to more than savoring weight and pressure against his pelvis, slowing himself deliberately to keep the cresting pleasure in his loins from boiling over-- spending himself now would be to spit in the face of fortune’s favor. But the look of drunken need on the elf’s beautiful, round, flushed face and his name on those bee-stung lips made him grasp Salgant by his ample waist and thrust upward greedily until their flesh slapped together and waves reverberated through the elf’s full, silky body.

“ _God, the things I want to do to you-- I want to fuck you every way you can be fucked, I want to drown you in my seed and lick you clean, I want to fill you so full you burst, you soft... beautiful... fucking--”_ the smith’s vulgarities were lost amid growls and sucking breaths.

Suddenly Salgant swore, bright and loud and tremulous, a word he’d never said aloud before in his life, and spilled into the smith’s hand.

Sauron’s breath stuttered around Salgant’s name and he bucked upward and went rigid, thrusting thrice more with a gasp of relieved, heaving finality. Salgant felt a hot, slippery cascade drip down his cheeks and pool beneath him, as smith’s taut body gradually released its tension and went slack.

Between little keening sounds they caught their breath, saying nothing as they rubbed one another fondly, sweating and slick, awash in pleasant giddiness. Sauron turned to one side, rolling Salgant off his chest and into his arms, exhaling mightily. He kissed the damp curls of his the elf’s head, still breathless.

“ _Thank you,_ " he said earnestly, voice hoarse.  

Salgant, emboldened, tried to reply ” _my pleasure_ “, but it left his lips as a mumble of half-made sounds, and he gave up, going limp in the great arms that encircled him.

There he lay for who knows how long, being stroked and kissed, smelling the uniqueness of the Maia and the amber oil and the fur covers and their spent seed. He could not remember a time when he’d felt so relaxed, so at peace with himself. He hoped it would last, and that he could share it.  

"You know, my Master was once full and soft like you…."  murmured Sauron, perhaps half asleep himself, "in the days when he loved himself, and loved others to love him.”  

Salgant’s ears twitched, intent despite his drowsiness.

“Maybe, now the war is won, he will become so again. That is my hope,” the forgemaster gave a sigh, and buried his proud face into the elf’s hair, shutting his eyes.

And Salgant, who had known nothing of Sauron’s master but that he was the Enemy, silently wished him happiness, as he wished all people happiness in that moment, before he drifted into sleep.

 

* * *

 

**_Epilogue_ : **

 

In the decades after, when Sauron’s master did not sleep, and could not shake off his great weariness, he did not become full and lovesome in himself again, but rather hungrier, and more fearful of treachery than before.

The elves spent all their time together, loving each other and their forgemaster too, though his troubles increased with each passing year, the effort to rebuild Beleriand falling more and more on his shoulders, and his master’s illness made him grow distant.

Maeglin, the traitor of Gondolin, become a captain of Angband as was promised; he wore a silver mask into battle that hid his identity from those might know him. His machines served not only to stamp out rebellion, but to aid in many pursuits of reconstruction and peace-- easing, and often replacing the work of thralls.

And Salgant, who was kind and loved comfort, found his place in eerie and rookery, where the dragons of Melkor made their nests, and in the kennels where wargs whelped their pups. He took special pride in caring for all creatures the elves found ugly, and no wrinkle-faced bat nor fang-filled wyrm went uncherished, or unspoiled.

When the Valar in their terrible glory marched across the seas to war, Maeglin, captain of Angband, stood against them in futile battle with his war machines and his cunning, and was trod to death beneath their feet. Salgant, unwilling to leave his charges, did not escape the nursery when the peaks of Thangorodrim were crushed beneath the fallen Ancalagon.

But after the fall of their second home, their spirits fled and mended together, and their lesson was not forgotten-- that trust and healing can sometimes be found in the most unlikely places.

**Author's Note:**

> \--Okay so you know in Princess Mononoke how they had all the ladies working the giant bellows in the iron works? It's like that but smaller. Just so we're on the same page here, visually.
> 
> \--Orcses is mesocarnivores, precious. Nasty elves is picky herbivorous omnivores.
> 
> \--There is no ethical consumption under late stage Angband.


End file.
